I have this seashell. It looks just ordinary, like any other seashell. It’s blueish and white, a little smaller than the palm of my hand. It’s got this goldish spot that shines sometimes, in just the right light. But that’s not why I love it.

I love it because, I didn’t even find it at the beach. I got it from the beach, but I hadn’t found it there. I had been collecting seashells that whole day, because it was windy and I was too cold and scared to go into the water with my sisters. So I collected shells, and threw them back in the ocean when my hands were full. I was eleven at the time, and I was going through this phase where I had this pair of hiking boots I insisted on wearing everywhere, including to the beach that day. Back in my room that night when I took off my boots, I found that shell, wedged by my ankle, miraculously in one piece.

I’ve kept it ever since, on the dresser by my bed. I don’t know why I like it so much, but I do. I like it there, I keep it there. And that, at least, never changes.